no help here from heaven
by thequeenofokay
Summary: She vomits. It's not a pretty sight. It's black and bloody, but Ward stands over her and holds her hair back. / dark!skyeward fluff. skye gets monster flu, and ward takes care of her.


**notes:**

+ dark!skyeward fluff. there's a contradiction. i took a cute fluffy trope and butchered it beyond recognition and i'm handing in back in a pool of its own blood here tbh. and if you have any other cute stuff you want me to twist and murder, go ahead and gimme.

+ this is in the assassins!skyeward universe of started by "when these bones decay", but this is really a oneshot, set sometime after it.

+ title from "broken bones" by chvrches.

* * *

Skye has had a remarkable lack of illness in the time Ward has known her. He can't even remember her getting a sniffle, honestly.

He supposes that was the monster thing. He's knows from what Raina and Skye have said, and from what they've left out, that her origins are… otherworldly. He guesses she must be immune to human disease.

But the first signs of illness are in a supermarket outside Boston.

She's complaining of sleeping badly, looks at him imploringly with eyes rimmed red. Insists on buying twelve tubs of ice cream and three massive bottles of lemonade. Kills the guy stacking shelves for looking at her funny (which isn't that unusual, in all honestly, but what is unusual is that she takes no time to relish in it. Snaps his neck so quick and clean he wouldn't have had time to realise what was happening or register pain for more than a split second).

They take their lemonade and ice cream, and leave quickly before anyone finds the body.

In the car (which they have temporarily commandeered) she lies down in the back seat and promptly falls asleep with one arm over her eyes and the other wrapped around her middle.

Ward drives. It rains. Hard and heavy and for hours on end, until he can barely see through the windscreen and he's pretty much sliding rather than driving down the road. The only other sound is Skye's soft breathing.

Then there's whimpering. Quiet at first. He hears her shifting about, breaths becoming less even.

He pulls the car over into the hard shoulder and stops. He leans over to look at her. She's pale, eyes sunken, sweating heavily.

The last time he saw her like this…

It wasn't a good day. There was more blood involved though.

He's not really sure what to do. He can't take her to a hospital and he doesn't know what's wrong with her.

He touches her shoulder gently, and she wakes suddenly. She crawls onto her knees, mumbles something and opens the door, sprawling out into the rain.

Ward follows her. She's on her knees again, soaking already.

She vomits. It's not a pretty sight. It's black and bloody, but Ward stands over her and holds her hair back and helps her back into the passenger seat of the car when she's done.

She's soaked and shivering. He finds a blanket under one of the seats and wraps it around her.

She looks up at him with big red eyes. "I feel ew," she croaks, making a face.

He gives a short laugh. "I noticed." He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. She's still burning up.

"What's happening to me?" she asks. Her eyebrows are drawn together and she's pouting.

"I don't know," he tells her. "You're ill. I don't know how."

She's shrinking into herself like a little child. "Am I going to die?" she asks, fear written across her features.

He kisses her forehead. "Not a chance." He rubs the back of her hand, tries to smile reassuringly. "I'll keep you safe, remember?" She smiles up at him. He can see her glazing over again already. "Try to sleep," he says, and she does.

He keeps driving south. He'd wanted to make it as far as Philadelphia, maybe even Baltimore if the weather eased up, before they had to stop. But when Skye had to stop and vomit by the roadside for the fourth time, he decided there was no way that was happening.

He turns in, heads for New York City instead.

He leaves the car a few blocks from his apartment and half-carries Skye up.

It's a safe house he's had for years - off the radar, unknown to SHIELD or Hydra. He let's himself in, closes the door behind him, and lets Skye down gently on the sofa.

She moans. She's still got the blanket clutched around her. "Water?"

He fetches some from the kitchen, waits while she drinks it up thirstily and hands back the glass.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asks, because honestly he has no idea how else to deal with her sickness. He has no access to way to access any kind of alien medicine (except for maybe Raina, but he would die before he handed SKye over to that woman).

She nods wordlessly. It's a little off putting how quiet she's being.

"Bed's through here." He waits for her to start to get up, but she just lifts her arms expectantly. He can't help smiling as he gathers her up like a doll. Her legs immediately circle his waist, her arms go round his neck, and she buries her face into his shoulder.

He walks her through to the bedroom, kisses her hair before he lays her down. She curls up and he pulls the covers around her and draws the curtains closed.

* * *

He wakes to find her gone. He searches the apartment, trying not to panic (and utterly, totally failing), but all he finds are empty lemonade bottles.

He goes up and down the stairs of the building. He goes out into the street, into the noise and the hot, humid air. Looks up and down, scans it as a specialist scans a new location. Then scans it again as a worried man looking for his sick girl.

Then he sees her.

Not her, exactly. Sees the usual devastation she leaves in her wake.

The shop on the corner has too many people standing outside it, all with concerned looks on their faces.

He pushes through the small crowd and into the grocers. She's there, sitting on the counter, still wrapped in her blanket. She's got a bagel in one hand and a bottle of cream soda in the other, and she still looks like death.

The shopkeeper is knocked out, along with a couple of other staff members. But still breathing, Ward notes. She's either feeling merciful or too tired. He'd put his money on the second. He knows she's not the merciful type (any longer).

"They didn't have lemonade," she complains. "Who doesn't have lemonade?"

He lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding and goes to her, scoops her up, unable to keep himself from kissing her (she tastes like sick and blood and sugar). "You can't do that," he says.

She frowns, taking a bite of her bagel. "Do what?"

"Just leave like that." He half-carries, half leads her out of the back entrance of the shop.

"But I just leave all the time."

"Not when you're sick," he says. "I can't make sure you're okay if I don't know where you are."

"I can take care of myself," she protests.

"I know," he says. (And oh, he does. He can feel a little lost, watching her take out a dozen men on her own, because that used to be _his_ job. This whole partners thing is new to him.) "Usually. But _not when you're sick_."

She sticks out her bottom lip. "I'm bored of being ill."

He laughs. So Skye. So typically be Skye. She's been ill a day and already she's restless. He lets them back into the apartment and lets her down. She falls onto the sofa.

"Let me entertain you then," he says.

A little smile spreads across her grey features. "If I stay here, you promise?"

"Yes," he says. He knows he's going to regret it.

She pats the sofa next to her. She's got a wicked look in her eyes. He loves it.

"You can start," she says (and her voice has gone low, soft), "by making me feel better."

He knows what she wants. She lies her head back, exposing the skin of her neck. Ward leans down over her, kissing her there, sucking at her flesh. She's still hot, still running a high temperature.

She moans softly, rakes her fingers through his hair, urging him on. He moves down, nipping at her collarbone. He tugs at the bottom of her black tee and she compliantly lifts up her arms for him to pull it off.

It's discarded on the floor.

He kisses down between her breasts, feels her shiver. "Ward," she mumbles.

He kisses her torso, relishes in the way her back arches and her shoulders press into the sofa.

She moans again. "Ward." It's impatient this time. Her fingers are tugging on the waistband of her trousers, directing him to what she wants.

He pulls them down, and her underwear follows.

He slips his fingers inside her, rubbing against her clit. Her breathing is ragged and her fingers tugging at his hair. He sucks at her neck again, nips at the skin behind her ear.

She groans. "Stop going easy," she mumbles.

He does as he's told, moves his fingers more deliberately, kisses her harder, until she comes, arching her back and digging her sharp nails into her shoulders.

She falls back onto the sofa. He can feel her shivering when he draws his hand up the hot skin of her stomach. Her fingers release their grip and he can feel her relaxing.

When her breathing slows back down and her eyelids flutter closed he pulls a blanket over her and closes the curtains to let her sleep.

* * *

It's been two weeks, and finally she's starting to improve. Any vomit is no longer dark and bloody.

She's spends most of her time in bed, under a mound of blankets. Her fever is slowly fading away.

She insists on dozens of games of battleship, and he doesn't mention the little ache he gets in his chest for something pure and innocent, a long time ago.

He plays anyway, just to see the smile on her face when she wins a dozen times in a row.

He takes her out for lunch once, to try and stem her boredom. They avoid the corner shop of which the staff are likely to be a little (understandably) hostile, and instead go to a cafe ten minutes walk away.

She's sitting across from him, sipping tea and watching the other customers. He'd be worried normally, that they were going to have to move on to avoid cops, but her normal calculating look is overridden by a slightly dazed one. Her fingers are sticky with maple syrup from the plate of waffles in front of her.

It's a strange kind of mesmerising.

"You're staring." She's smiling at him, big and happy that she's caught him out. He hadn't even noticed her focus shifting.

"Am I not allowed to?" he asks.

She shrugs, sucking the syrup from her fingers. "I guess I can maybe allow it," she says. Her cheeks and lips are bright rosy pink (he's used to blood red).

"Good," he says. Because he isn't going to stop.

* * *

By the third week she's up and about again. They're both getting a little restless. Ward is anxious to move on. They've never stayed anywhere this long. He can't help worrying that someone is going to find them.

He finds her sitting in the window seat, looking over the city. Early morning sun is illuminating her. She looks so much brighter than she did even days before. She's shrouded in lace curtains that Ward doesn't remember owning. She must have gone for a walk while he was sleeping. He doesn't feel the need to chastise it for her now.

He sits down next to her. She shifts to make room and looks up at him, smiling expectantly.

"We've got work in Munich," he tells her. "If you feel well enough to take it."

She leans her head back. "Take it," she says. "I need out of here. Even if I just play tech support. It's been too long."

He knows what she means. He's pretty sure that there are a few bodies in the trash behind their building from midnight walks she insists she doesn't go on, but it's been too long since he's killed. Last time was a policeman asking too many questions about Skye after they went grocery stealing and she took a gun. And that was easy, no effort at all. Leave it much longer and he'll end up losing his touch for real killing.

He nods. "I'll let them know." He stands.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't grown attached to this apartment. Skye has written herself all over it, but like everything in their life, it has to be left behind.

"Time to go?" Skye asks.

He nods. Leans down, kisses her forehead. "Time to go."


End file.
